“What exactly does this prophecy say about me to make everyone want me dead?” I ask next, needing to understand why their world is so hell bent on killing me.
She grimaces, and I tense for her reply. This should be morefun.
“Not all want you dead,” she says. “Some will want to take possession of you, figure out how to use your powers. Or worse, breed you in order to create an heirthey can control. In this instance, death would be a mercy.”
The breeze picks up, ruffling the leaves around us. I sit, staring at the dirt kicking up beneath my feet as we sway. The silence does nothing to settle my nerves or fears or desire to run.
I look back up at Liz. “What if I don’t want any of this? What if I refuse to shift?”
Liz’s smile is soft, but there’s no hope in it. “I’m not sure, but we’ll figure it out together. I won’t leave you alone in this.”
I glance at her, needing to lighten the mood before I break under the weight of a destiny I never asked for. “Even if I turn into a giant wolf and try to eat you for dinner?”
She snorts. “I’ve survived rogue vampires, fae assassins, and one dinner with Iris when she made a stew that smelled like literal regret. I can survive you. In any form.”
A laugh escapes me—surprised and shaky, but real.
If Mom trusted Liz, then so can I.
I just hope I don’t end up actually trying to kill her by turning into whatever these people think I might become.
Chapter 9
CADE
Negotiating with Iris Prescott is like being drugged. One moment, I think I know what’s happening, and the next, she’s talking about “reading the chicken feet on the wall” before snapping back to reality like we didn’t just detour into lunacy.
“Rowan is all I have left in this world,” Iris says for the hundredth time since I came into her office downstairs, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “If you so much as make her eyes well up, I will find someone bigger, badder, and more powerful to rip you to shreds. That poison arrow will seem like child’s play compared to what they’ll do.”
I step toward her, my height towering over her much smaller, frailer frame, but she doesn’t flinch, not even when my chest rumbles in warning. “I’d never hurt my mate.”
It’s an insult to accuse me of doing so that only someone who isn’t a shifter would think possible.
Finding our mate isn’t something I’ve ever seenanother wolf take for granted or abuse. Well, outside of my father when he ignored my mother for far too long, and as much as I hated him in the end, I can’t deny the pain he held for her after her death.
Iris’s wrinkled face tightens, her mouth pressing into a thin line. “I hate this for her more than you could possibly imagine, but I guess you can stay. That doesn’t mean I approve of you and her. If Rowan wants to reject you, I will fully support her, and I won’t keep anything from her. But…” She leans back in her chair, eyes glinting, “I’d be a fool to deny you can help protect her from what’s coming. Even a rabid wolf can guard the door if it’s chained to the porch.”
At least she’s finally seeing sense. Mostly.
We still need to keep an eye on Iris, my wolf says.While she brought us our mate, she also brought Rowan into this danger. We need to know why, and something tells me it’s more than Rowan being the last heir in the Prescott family.
I agreed with that.
“I’ll need a room inside, near Rowan’s,” I say without leaving room for argument. “And you won’t treat me like a guard dog, Iris. She’s my mate. Even if I make her hate me in the process, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe. Including killing you over and over again or taking her from NightShade without permission. You might think this is a safe haven, but you’re about to watch the worst parts of our world come crashing through your doorstep.”
She pats her hip, fingers resting with casual confidence on whatever weapon she’s got hidden beneath her loose, flowery dress. “I’ve protected thisplace for five centuries. Nothing and no one is going to stop me from doing that now.” Her gaze rakes over me like she’s measuring where to put the first bullet. “I’ve buried scarier things than you, wolf-boy, and some of them still send me postcards.”
Her words shouldn’t get under my skin, but the way she says it—like it’s not a threat, but a casual fact—makes my wolf bristle.
“We’ll see about that,” I mutter, turning to walk away. I’ve had enough of her brand of crazy for one day.
But Iris Prescott doesn’t let anyone leave on their own terms.
The air shifts behind me, the faintest scrape of porcelain on wood my only warning. I pivot as my hand shoots up, snatching the small ivory elephant out of the air inches before it would have cracked against my skull.
Her aim is good. I’ll give her that.
My fingers curl, grinding the figurine into shattered fragments until it sifts past my knuckles and scatters across her ornate rug like bone dust.
